As I wrote an entry on my list for an elegant bronze athlete, the knocker thudded once more. I left the athlete poised to begin his race and tapped my way to the door. Brewster hurtled down from the top floor, but I reached the front door before he did.
I opened it to find, as I’d hoped, Proietti. He was breathless, as though he’d run all the way from his home. He was also smiling.
I hadn’t seen the man smile except for an ironic grin here and there, but now he was positively beaming.
“Captain,” he said, giving me a truncated bow. “My apologies for my late arrival. My wife, she returned home today. She very much would like to meet you and Mr. Grenville. Can you come with me now?”
Chapter22
Grenville and I followed Proietti through the wet afternoon streets, Brewster coming behind us. Baldini had offered to stay at the house and keep working, and we could think of no excuse to deter him. Brewster had stashed the ledgers somewhere, and I trusted him to have found a safe and well-hidden place.
We entered the narrow lane that led to Proietti’s home. A woman sweeping a doorstep called a greeting to him, and porters who delivered goods raised caps or nodded. A young lady, her mother, and their maid all smiled at Proietti when he tipped his hat to them. They exchanged good afternoons, and the ladies watched interestedly as Proietti hurried past toward his front door. The entire street apparently knew that the signora was home.
Proietti’s door opened, his retainer’s expression sunnier than I’d ever seen as he ushered us in with the sweep of an arm. I heard voices as soon as we entered, the house no longer dark and silent.
A woman’s tones floated down the stairs, firm though not strident. A man answered deferentially as did another woman. Proietti took the stairs buoyantly, his stride swift. Grenville and I followed, though Brewster hung behind, speaking to the retainer as he faded into the shadows.
Upstairs, we entered a large sitting room we hadn’t seen before. The shutters were open, and though the gray day outside was gloomy, this chamber was airy and light.
A woman in a dark burgundy gown stood in the middle of the room giving orders to a maid who plumped pillows on the sofa, while a manservant busily lit candles in newly polished candlesticks.
The woman turned abruptly as we entered. “Alessandro,” she said to Proietti and continued in Italian before she swept her gaze to us.
Signora Proietti had very dark hair and animated dark eyes—she was nowhere near the delicate creature I’d imagined who’d fled Rome with a broken heart.
“Captain Lacey, thank you for attending.” Signora Proietti’s voice was a pleasing alto, her accent charming. “Mr. Grenville. I am very pleased to meet you.”
Grenville, a master of courtesy, bowed. “Enchanté, Madame. It is good of you to admit us to your abode. Shall you sit?” He gestured to the sofa, the maid having finished straightening its cushions.
“I have heard of your pleasing manners,” Signora Proietti said. “Paola will bring coffee.”
The maid at once scuttled away while the footman took our wraps. The footman departed, closing the door carefully behind him.
“Captain Lacey, my husband has written to me about how you have stayed at his side.” Signora Proietti sank to the sofa, and Proietti waved Grenville and me to chairs. He settled in next to his wife, his entire being radiating gladness.
“I was pleased to help,” I said. “Though I have not done much.”
“You have kept him from despair,” Signora Proietti corrected me. “I could not sit idly. Once I knew my daughter was determined to be with Conte Trevisan, I traveled north to visit friends and find out about him. I disliked to leave Alessandro alone, but I knew he would be well.”
“The house is empty without you, Lucia,” Proietti said with all sincerity. “And with Gisela gone too …” He spread his fingers, a man hopeless.
“You found these companions to guide you. I discovered many things as well.”
Signora Proietti turned to us, her eyes alight. Unlike Contessa Trevisan, who was a faded beauty, Lucia Proietti was robust and lively.
“Do tell, dearest lady,” Grenville said. “You have us on tenterhooks.”
Her brow creased in bewilderment. “Excuse me? What is a tenterhook?”
“Dashed if I know,” Grenville returned. “But it’s what one says when one is in a state of quivering suspense.”
“I shall have to remember. The English language is a bizarre one, is it not?”
“Lucia,” Proietti said gently, but I could see he was on tenterhooks as well.
“Forgive me. I am being rude.” Signora Proietti straightened her hands on her lap. “My friends in Venice are acquainted with Contessa Trevisan, the wife of the conte here. She is forty but her hair is already gray, poor lamb.”
“She is ill?” I asked.
